


scarlet starlet

by miehczyslaw



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Canon - Manga, Canon-Typical Violence, Introspection, Love/Hate, M/M, Manga Spoilers, No Plot/Plotless, Prose Poem, ehh, minor character death implied?????????????, smut if u squint ur eyes lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:11:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6163600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miehczyslaw/pseuds/miehczyslaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caution: the kids are in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	scarlet starlet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reveire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reveire/gifts).



> goodnite

**i.**

If you pass your hands through his sharp blade—that mouth half open and demanding, you lacerate him (and he wants you), you insult him (and he wants you), you spit on him (and he wants you), you tear him in half in fragments of lily and black felt, which you sew up in his azure blue poison as an apology (and he wants you more).

But if it is you who touches him—with crooked thumbs that bleed to the tiles of your hair, he bites you (and you detest him), he hugs you (and you detest him), he kicks your eyes (and you detest him), he touches your cheeks and the skin stretches until it crumbles (and you detest him more).

**ii.**

And there is exposed flesh, a groan drowned in a dirty puddle in the middle of the street, his calloused and scraped fingertips—and a purple mouth tightened in a fall line of a “Mineminemine.”

Because—

“You belong to me, only I can subjugate you, you _un-der-stand_.”

**iii.**

But Ayato gets astride on you, with an arrogant and disdainful smile from a boy who takes off the wings of his raven pets and also says very casually: “Sister, you look so cute without light in your eyes and buried in my garden. Screw you there for the rest of eternity. Please?”

He is one of those who later orders you to help him to hide the evidence from the crime scene.

Hearts throb and adorn the walls of the house with his misdeeds lying on the ground.

Betrayers.

—Pum-pum-pum.

They resound in an ancient rock.

—Pum-pum-pum.

**iv.**

He walks brazenly, and takes away your sooty shirt and licks your hair of snow, and you calcine alive when Ayato freezes with your touch of boiling ice. You guys will sweat and reproach. _You guys are cursed._

And sometimes you want to stamp his face into the pavement, but other times you want to choke him with your pillow while you pass your fingers through his shoulder blades, trying to decipher this map that goes to a treasure made of scars.

(His body is full of imperfections, burns, and tears dried because of a weak father.)

And you look at him and comment:

“My mother was not strong. But at least your father was a good person.”

You tell him this even if you know he will not respond. He prefers to keep quiet, and then he laughs humorless against your lungs. Ayato takes your spine in a hug. And the bones jump with deaf and magnetic noises along with the blood dancing, and the smell of an open wound that has become infected already.

 “Ah,” he mumbles. “We are both are sons of failures then.”

**v.**

He is a clumsy comfort, to be honest.

And you do not understand how you finished with Ayato entangled between your legs. Looking for your weaknesses to dominate you—although he is the vulnerable one. He clings to your neck, between breaths of compass.

(There your bodies are hourglasses with vanishing points, and you have lost your hope in their pockets loaded with stones.)

**vi.**

Ayato is hungry with a stomach that has a party inside and a buffet of restless organs. And you cut him with a caress on the bottom of the navel. You investigate the entrance to hell that you both know perfectly.

It gives you grace.

Since—

“I have two free tickets destined into sin, would you like to join me?”

**vii.**

But you deliberately ignore the goddess with glasses and sequins who plays behind your back. Clawing violet varnish on your shoulders she teases you with:

“You'll never be his, Kaneki-kun. What a liar you have become.”

Well, you understand that he too is harassed by a sad ghost, angry with all the shadows in a coffee shop. The one who repeats, “Brother, brother, you have forgotten to put flowers on my grave.”

Whereby Ayato pretends insanity as he takes your hands and breaks them in two.

“Shut up, fuck,” he says nervously.

And you look at him, apprehensive.

“But I did not say anything.”

**viii.**

He does not understand reasons after all. He strikes you on the jaw and he expects you to throw him to the couch and _feel him_ —at each corner. He flagellants you with his corners of diamond, for having thorns and for being a rapacious demon.

(So, so irascible;

so macabre;

so, so loveable.)

He stains you with his oil, that dark hair, and with his cheekbones of shattered glass.

**ix.**

You try not to think of the dead body in the backyard you helped him to bury (Touka-chan, your hands are so cold); and you keep Rize-san in a strongbox (Mom, do not bother me).

Because you are together—really together, for a couple of minutes. And then you will murder him completely and love him for parts.

Without them, without them, without them.

(Without anyone.)

Except if you see Ayato you get nauseas, and you want to spew to him all your affections.

**x.**

And you do not contain a suicidal impulse.

And he does not contain a blasphemy.

He contemplates you in silence.

And—

“You're mine even in death and no one else’s, dammit.”

**xi.**

So, you get lost in his bruises.

Darling.

_Hit me._

Darling.

_Crush me._

Darling.

_Break me._

Darling.

_Take me._

“Show no mercy.”

**xii.**

It turns out that you are just a couple of frightened children, beaten by tweezers of a shark and mathematics accounts and trees of nightmare. And Ayato usually plays with your grimace of fear, between his lips.

“How are a thousand least seven seconds at your side?” he asks. “Answer, answer, answer.”

But you do not know.

You are as weak, as you are too tired to fight with yourself.

**xiii.**

He pulls your soul with his claws of death, removes more meat with slow breath, and he whispers, “You're my funeral, idiot, so I dedicate to you these fresh innards sprouting from me, those that are a ribbon of a gift of a war between skins. Accept them.”

And you have the urge to take him in every corner, remove his ribs and arrange them incorrectly—accompanying the parade of hearts in the hallway. But you do not.

You'd rather hurt him with a kiss.

From the inside out.

Because you're in love with a knife. And he wants (to cut) you, too.

**xiv.**

“Pretty boy,” you call him then. At the expense of having to use a first aid kit later.

And Ayato growls.

‘Pretty boy,’ you like the nickname. You like it a lot.

It's something like a homicide in slow motion.

And Ayato sinks his nails into you.

(What do you want?)

“Kill—us.”

(What are you waiting for?)

Your hundred legs are slipping into his holes; they shiver in anticipation.

“I wait for the love. The love may save us from life.”

But you do not answer, instead you steal his breath.

**xv.**

You pray his name in your mind, that labyrinth without exit.

_'AyatoAyatoAyato.'_

But aloud and trampled you murmur:

“Pretty boy,” with a cruel tone. You’re surrendered to his prose of rage.

And you bite his ears, and you bleed in your throat at his taste of glitter and glass. Ayato sighs loudly, but he does not fight and does not run away from your arms of a rusty cage, either.

(Because you have lost a sock and the corpse in the garden of our consciences stink. Hold me as the melody of your one hundred three bones breaking lulls us to sleep).


End file.
